


I'd cross oceans

by peardita



Series: recovery in motion [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Boundaries, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Self Care, Fluff, Getting Together, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peardita/pseuds/peardita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Steve dithers. It only</em> feels <em>like he’s already known Sam forever; there’s plenty he doesn’t know. He does know Sam is one of the most competent, self-sufficient people he’s met. But then, so are Tasha, Fury, and Hill, and even they need help sometimes. You don’t have to know everything to know enough—his instincts told him to talk to the guy on his morning route. His instincts told him to go to Sam’s when he and Tasha were on the run.</em></p><p>
  <em>Now, his instincts are telling him to check on Sam.</em>
</p><p>Or, Sam is having a hard time, Steve wants to do whatever he can to help. Can also be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd cross oceans

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my cheerleaders and pre-readers: Leah, Cam, W.C. and Lire. This wouldn’t have gotten done without you; your enthusiasm and encouragement gives me life. Also big thanks to my betas [Dirtydirtychai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai) and [WitticasterCole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WitticasterCole/). All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Content note: this fic deals with the aftermath of an unspecified PTSD-related anxiety attack that occurs off screen before the fic starts.

Even when he’s busy—attention focused on, say, digging through decades-old Soviet and HYDRA files, trying to find any clues about Bucky’s next move—there’s a part of Steve’s brain that is always observing, noticing the details of his surroundings and filing them away. A quick look at a map of Europe and he’s got the locations of HYDRA’s bases. Too many men getting on the same elevator, body language slightly off, and he’s prepared for the ambush. How long on average Sam spends in the shower and ... he’s not sure what that’s telling him, actually. Normally, Sam is relatively quick. But less than a week’s worth of data points isn’t that many, and for all Steve knows, maybe sometimes Sam likes to slow it down and take longer—much longer.

Something he’s more familiar with is the limits of modern water heaters, and unless Sam is hiding an industrial one somewhere, he ran out of hot water a ways back, and he’s been standing in an ice cold shower turned on full blast for ... a while.

Steve dithers. It only _feels_ like he’s already known Sam forever; there’s plenty he doesn’t know. He does know Sam is one of the most competent, self-sufficient people he’s met. But then, so are Tasha, Fury, and Hill, and even they need help sometimes. You don’t have to know everything to know enough—his instincts told him to talk to the guy on his morning route. His instincts told him to go to Sam’s when he and Tasha were on the run.

Now, his instincts are telling him to check on Sam.

He knocks on the bathroom door, firm but not urgent. Not yet, anyway. “Sam?”

There’s a pause and then the sound of the water spray tapering off as Sam turns down the flow control valve; another modern innovation Steve appreciates. “Sorry, man,” Sam’s voice comes, “Were you waiting on me? You remember I said if you need to get anything you can just pop in, right?”

“I remember.” Steve’s hand is on the doorknob but he doesn’t turn it. He won’t assume a general-purpose invitation applies when he might be—intruding. “I didn’t need anything. I just wanted to check if everything was—alright? You’ve been in there a while, is all.” Almost two hours, in fact; there’s no point to pretending that Steve hasn’t been watching the clock.

There’s another pause and then the sound of Sam turning off the shower taps entirely. “Sorry, I’m ... hold on. Just a minute.” His voice sounds—strange, but maybe that’s because of the door between them.

“No rush,” Steve says. He steps back and listens to the sounds of Sam getting out of the shower and grabbing a towel like they might tell him something.

When Sam opens the door, he has one towel wrapped around his hips and another over his shoulders, which he uses to pat half-heartedly at his face. He’s still wet everywhere else, water drops running down his limbs and torso.

Sam doesn’t look—bad, but he doesn’t look particularly good, either. When he speaks, it’s while he does another pass over his face with the towel; a conscious choice or not, Steve can’t tell.

“I’m—” He pauses and lets both the hand and towel drop again, before shrugging a little. “It’s just ... one of those days. You know?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, slow and careful. He swallows. “I know.”

Sam parks his hip against the lip of the sink next to him, lets himself sag against it. He’s trembling slightly, or shivering: from the cold water, maybe, Steve thinks—he hopes. Sam’s got his head slightly bowed and he’s smiling this little self-deprecating smile, the one that normally means he’s not taking himself too seriously, or not taking _Steve_ too seriously.

Steve isn’t sure what it means right now.

“It’s just been a long week.” Sam’s speaking more slowly than usual, like everything requires searching for the right words. “... More than a week?” He shakes his head.

Steve knows exactly how many days it’s been, and he’d bet Sam does too. He couldn’t not count if he tried. Sometimes pretending like you don’t know, like each and every day isn’t hanging over you, is the best you can do.

“Something like that,” Steve says.

“Some stuff caught up with me, I guess.” Sam’s lips twitch in a barely-there rueful smile. “Caught me a little off guard.”

“Yeah.” Steve shoves his hands in the tight pockets of his chinos, for lack of a better use. “Yeah, it does ... that.”

“Right.” Sam’s expression looks tired, but he wraps the towel around his shoulders more firmly. “I just need some time to get some stuff ... settled back down. That’s all. Probably.”

“Alright,” Steve says. There’s something in Sam’s eyes that’s painfully familiar, but Steve won’t push. If Sam needs some time, that’s what Steve will give him. If there’s anyone Steve should trust to know what they need, it’s Sam. “Good. I can get out of your hair—“

It’s a nice day out. The little patch of back yard belonging to Sam’s condo needs to be mown, but Sam had mentioned his lawnmower needs a tune-up first. Steve’s pretty handy, he could take a look. Or if Sam needs more space than that, Steve could go for a walk, maybe do a grocery run, or hit up the library and then grab a bite to eat somewhere, if Sam needs him gone longer—

“Wait.” Sam’s voice halts him. “Actually, if you wanted to stick around ... you don’t have to, though.”

Most people are smaller than Steve now; it’s a fact he’s gotten used to. Sam may be slightly shorter, not quite as broad, but he’s sturdy, and he’s never felt particularly small to Steve. When Steve thinks about Sam with his wings—he thinks about drawing it, the lines and arcs, the grace. But he hasn’t yet even tried, has no idea where to begin. With his wings—it feels like Sam fills the entire sky.

 _Beautiful_.

Right now Sam doesn’t exactly seem smaller, but he looks like he’s trying to be, like he’s pulling himself in. Putting pressure on himself, trying to keep the fracture lines that Steve can almost see in his mind’s eye from running all the way through, from shattering him.

Steve takes a breath, releases it, nods. “Yeah ... yeah. I can do that.”

 

Steve hesitates about following Sam back to his room—he doesn’t want to leave Sam alone now that Sam has asked him to stick around, but he also doesn’t want to smother. Sam solves the dilemma by whistling when he gets a look at the alarm clock sitting on his nightstand.

“Was I really in there that long?” he calls back to Steve.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve says, following after him.

“Good thing you checked on me then, in case I hit my head or something...” Sam’s obviously trying for humor, but it sounds forced. He drops the towel that was around his waist to pull on a pair of heather gray sweatpants.

“You’re allowed to shower as long as you want,” Steve says, pausing in the doorway.

Sam glances over his shoulder at Steve, and his mouth makes a movement that might be a smile. “Just warn a guy first, huh?”

Steve shrugs. “It did seem ... a little out of the ordinary.”

Sam looks away again. “Yeah, well ... next time I plan to have a freak out somewhere else, I’m _freezing_.”

Steve glances away as Sam roughly finishes toweling himself off and reaches for a worn hoodie. Staying by the door feels like he’s sending a signal he’d rather leave, which is the last thing Steve wants to do. He waits until Sam’s turned around again and then nods at his bed.

“Do you mind if I—?”

Sam shakes his head and bends to hang the discarded towels over the back of a chair. “Nah, go ahead. Make yourself at home.”

Even though he’s obviously stressed, obviously hurting, he still says it like it’s easy for him to say. Like he’s fully comfortable welcoming Steve into whatever sense of home he’s built for himself here. Home hasn’t been easy for Steve for a long time—but here with Sam, it feels like it could be. Sam makes him feel comfortable.

Steve wants to return the favor, if he can.

He sits on the edge of Sam’s bed, and smiles briefly at the extra firm mattress. The mattress dips again as Sam sits heavily beside him.

He won’t ask if Sam wants to talk about it. In Steve’s experience, that was one of the least helpful things people said to him when he was ... down. If Sam wants to talk about it, he’ll probably just start talking about it.

Of course, that leaves Steve unsure what he _should_ say. Honesty is probably best.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.

When he looks up it’s to see Sam looking at him sidelong. “Right now, or in general?”

“Well, in general too,” Steve says, and Sam snorts a little. “But I meant right now. I never learned how to ... talk about stuff. I know I only saw the very end of your meeting, but what you do—I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know if I can.”

He has a sudden memory of Peggy sitting next to him in the back of the car on their way to the final phase of Project Rebirth— only six years ago, as far as Steve’s mind is concerned. He remembers her asking, “ _You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?_ ”

Looking into Sam’s eyes, he feels a similar surge of affection that almost knocks him away.

“I don’t want to make anything worse.”

There’s still something worn in Sam’s expression, but his smile curls around it as he knocks his elbow gently into Steve’s. “Why am I not surprised you’re over-thinking it?”

“Am I?” Steve asks.

Sam shrugs a little. “I don’t need you to be a trained _anything_. If I needed that, I would call my own therapist. I just—don’t want to be alone right now.” He pauses. “I want you here.”

Steve’s heart clenches. “I’m not going anywhere.” Sam’s arm is still touching his, faintly, and Steve brushes back lightly, in reassurance. Still—Steve takes a breath, lets it out—he has to ask: “But if I say the _wrong_ thing?”

Sam looks like he’s trying to smile, but his expression is too tense for that. “If I need you to stop, I’ll tell you to stop. You just have to promise you’ll listen and actually stop. Right away.”

Whatever’s putting those lines of tension between Sam’s brows, Steve wants to help ease some of it away. “Of course,” he says quickly.

When he first met her, Peggy had intimidated the hell out of him because he’d respected and admired her fiercely, and it would have meant the world to have her approval. Sam ... Sam intimidates Steve for other reasons. Sam respected him from day one, not as Captain America, not as a hero, but as a person. Steve isn’t sure he knows how to be just a person, anymore.

But he wants to try.

“Whatever you need—period.“

In Steve’s head, it sounds like a promise—he means it like a promise.

The way Sam’s smile, still lopsided and tight as it is, actually reaches his eyes is worth it. “A blank check from Captain America, be still my heart.”

Sam’s teasing, but Steve can only helplessly smile back. “Just let me know what you want me to do.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “What, sitting here?”

Sam snorts a little, softly. “Just keep saying whatever comes into your head, no matter how inane—which you’re obviously doing great.” He smirks a bit, but the warmth which with he says it takes out the sting.

“Hey,” Steve says, pretending to take offense. He pauses. “... Now you’ve put me on the spot like that, I can’t think of anything to say.”

Sam laughs a little. “So, just say that over and over until you think of something else, and then we’ll be in business,” he says, flopping back so he’s lying starfished out crosswise on the bed with his feet still on the floor.

Steve turns so he’s looking down at Sam lying there, eyes shut. The fact that Sam isn’t watching right now somehow makes it easier to not be self-conscious and just dive right in. “I was thinking earlier about what to do with the rest of the afternoon,” he says. “There’s errands, or I could take a look at your lawn mower—“

“Oh, God,” Sam groans, draping a forearm across his eyes. “No one told me when you save the world you still have the same giant pile of _chores_ to do.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly, “It kind of never stops.”

“I wish I could just take the day off,” Sam says from behind his arm. “No responsibilities, just ... absolutely nothing. But that’s dumb, I already _am_ on vacation—“ Sam’s officially on sabbatical from work right now, while he and Steve recover and the government tries to figure out what to do with them.

“It’s not dumb,” Steve says. “Let’s do that. Let’s spend the rest of the day doing nothing.”

Sam pulls his arm down so he can peer at Steve over it. “We’re not doing much right now.”

“So let’s do even less,” Steve says. “Hell, we can spend the rest of the day relaxing in bed, if we want.” It feels a little daring and a lot foolish to say—Steve’s never exactly been the kind of person to lay around in bed, so he’s worried he’s off on the wrong track. But then Sam starts laughing, and Steve’s heart swoops, and he can’t stop grinning.

Sam wipes at the tears that are gathering in the outside corners of his eyes. “Steve Rogers spending all day being lazy in bed, really? I’m not sure I believe that’s physically possible for you.”

“You want to make a bet?” Steve asks, part teasing with a little bit of competitiveness thrown in.

“What, that you wouldn’t be able to handle staying in bed for the rest of the day?” Sam looks a little interested now, or at least more entertained.

“That _you_ can last longer than I can,” Steve says.

Sam makes a show of thinking about it. “Alright, I’ll bet on a sure thing.”

“Loser has to order takeout for dinner,” Steve says. “... What about going to the bathroom, or getting up to get a drink?”

“Do you even know how spending the day in bed _works_?” Sam shakes his head. “Bathroom doesn’t count, obviously, and getting drinks and food doesn’t count as long as it doesn’t require being out of bed for more than, say, five minutes and you eat it in bed.” Sam smirks a little. “You better think about what you’re going to get us for dinner, old man, I’ve got this sown up.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Steve says as he climbs to his feet and heads out the bedroom door.

“Giving up already?” Sam calls after him, but Steve only laughs.

When he returns, he’s got a twelve-pack of water bottles and the giant bowl Sam uses for popcorn on movie nights loaded up with what looks like the entire snack contents of Sam’s cupboards, as well as a whole roll of paper towels. Sam eyes the bounty as Steve sets it down next to the bed.

“This isn’t like going camping or something.”

Steve shrugs. “You know how fast my metabolism runs. It would give you an unfair advantage otherwise.”

“Oh, well, wouldn’t want to give me any _unfair_ advantages.”

“That’s what I said.” Steve goes up and starts tugging at the top of the duvet by Sam’s face. “Well come on, Wilson, we can’t get _in_ the bed with you on top of it like that.”

“—Wait.” Sam pushes himself upright. “We’re doing this both in my bed?”

Steve shrugs. “Well, yeah. If I was in my bed,” where he’s staying in Sam’s second bedroom, “and you were in yours, how would I be able to tell when I won?”

“You mean when _I_ won,” Sam says. “Alright, point.” He climbs to his feet and turns down the covers, climbing in on the opposite side from where Steve is already situating himself.

“You’ve got a good mattress—” Steve says.  


“—Still going to be like spending the rest of the day on a marshmallow? Yeah.” Sam’s smile is crooked. “Right now, that doesn’t sound so bad.”

It’s different, seeing Sam’s smile only a few feet from his own, just across on the other pillow. Sam is on his right, so every time he looks over, he sees the left side of Sam’s face, in profile, or in quarters, as Sam turns to look at him in return. It’s the same side of Sam’s face Steve saw in the morning on his runs, glimpsed out of the corner of his eye every time he went past. If he wanted to draw Sam—draw his handsome features, wide, easy smile, expressive eyes—it would always be from the left, the first way Steve saw him, lighting up under that early morning sunrise glow, how he always thinks of Sam first.

Sam’s making a show of burrowing into his pillow now, pulling the hood of his hoodie out from under him so it doesn’t get bunched up behind his back.

“You warming up yet?” Steve asks.

“Working on it, yeah,” Sam says. He glances over at Steve. “How you doing?”

“... It won’t disqualify me if I push the covers off my side, will it?” Steve asks.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “What, getting too hot over there?”

Steve waits for a beat, then smirks.

“—Oh, har har.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, everyone on earth knows how attractive you are, Rogers.” Under the blankets he reaches over and hits Steve, lightly, then pauses, hand spread out over part of Steve’s right deltoid and pectoral. “Wow, damn, you _are_ putting out major heat. How hot do you run anyway?”

Steve’s almost obligated to widen his smirk before replying. “You didn’t notice before?” he asks first, curious.

Sam manages a lopsided smile. “My bad, I didn’t have time to fondle you earlier.” He gives Steve’s shoulder an approximation of a grope and then lightly bumps it with his fist. “Next time I’ll be sure to put it at the top of my list, make sure I’m keeping your manly ego nurtured and everything.”

“Yeah, my ego’s really suffering over here, it could definitely use the boost,” Steve deadpans. “—But, to answer your question, about 104, normally. It gets higher when I’m doing things—fighting, or healing. The SHIELD doctors told me they don’t know how it hasn’t cooked my brain.”

“They sure it hasn’t?” Sam mumbles.

“Tasha definitely beat you to that joke.”

There’s a pause, slightly too long. “Yeah, I bet she did. She’s got a good sense of humor, your girl.”

“She’s not my girl,” Steve corrects automatically, with a slightly quizzical smile. Sam already knew that. “Sam, what—?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “Just—I forget sometimes, that you’re not a regular guy.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Taking down three helicarriers with me last week didn’t tip you off?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean like that. You’re here, making silly bets with me and eating all my cookies, probably, and—“ He kicks out with a foot and pauses, toes pressing into Steve’s calf. “Oh, man. You really are warm. That feels fantastic.”

Steve hisses, for effect. “And your feet are freezing. I thought you said you were warming up?”

“I said working on it,” Sam says. He presses the balls of both feet against Steve’s legs before starting to draw them back again.

“Hey,” Steve says, “Come back here.” He rucks up the blanket as he reaches down beneath the covers, seeking out Sam’s feet.

Sam gives him a look. “... Is Captain America gonna give me a foot rub now?”

“You want me to stop?” Steve asks. It’s weird, he’s probably made things too weird, but Sam’s feet are chilly in his hands and this is something he knows he can do.

“I didn’t say that,” Sam says. He curves his body, scootching around until he’s in a comfortable position with his feet at the right distance for Steve to reach. It’s a queen size bed, so there isn’t that much room to spare, and his legs end up pressed against Steve’s side. After a moment Steve pushes himself up slightly, propped back on a pillow against the headboard, and pulls Sam’s feet into his lap. Sam sighs and his eyes slide shut. “I could get used to this.”

Steve’s been wondering for a while, so he lets himself ask. “So there’s no one else to give you foot rubs? No one ... special?”

“If that’s your way of asking me if I’m currently seeing someone, no,” Sam says, eyes still shut. “My last girl and I broke up six months ago, and I realized—I was actually cool with being single for a while, you know? My life was in place where I was just ... good with being there for a while.”

Steve’s hands still. “—What about now?”

Sam squints at him. “I know you’re not doing some guilt thing, because I am so not dealing with that right now.”

“Message received,” Steve says. “No guilt things.” His hands resume massaging Sam’s feet. “Can I ask though—how are you feeling about things right now? I’m not— _not—_ asking if you’re sure you want to keep helping me. I know if you want out, you’ll tell me. But, just—“ Steve shrugs a little, unsure how to finish wording the question.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and then he’s silent for a while, apparently thinking the question over.

Steve retrieves two water bottles and a package of Oreos from beside the bed. He hands one of the bottles to Sam, then hesitates over the Oreos, looking from Sam’s feet to the cookies.

“Alright, let’s have cookie break time,” Sam says and moves his feet off of Steve’s warmth, so Steve can go wash his hands.

Mission accomplished, Steve climbs back into bed and pulls the covers back across his lap. He opens the Oreos and hesitates. “I should have gotten plates.”

Steve looks like he might actually get up again for a trip to the kitchen, so Sam quickly sticks his feet back into Steve’s lap. “And I should have known you would be the ‘no crumbs in bed’ type. Come on, Rogers, live dangerously.”

“Being messy in bed is your idea of living dangerously?”

“... Well,” Sam says.

Steve doesn’t wait for him to finish the thought. Instead he breaks the Oreo vigorously in half, crumbs scattering everywhere—and then smushes half the cookie on Sam’s face.

Sam sputters and laughs, batting Steve’s hand away. “You’re such an ass,” he says, wiping the cream filling off his cheek with his thumb and then popping it in his mouth to suck it clean. “I don’t know where this idea of Steve Rogers as such a wholesome, good guy came from.”

Steve smirks. “Oh, I’m plenty wholesome.” He opens the next Oreo and starts licking the cream filling out of the center.

“You’re a menace is what you are,” Sam says. “—I’m going to miss you when this is over.”

Steve stills. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

Sam shrugs a little. “Once we find your best friend, you’re gonna—have a lot of other stuff to do. And you’re probably going to have to have to decide what to do about going back to your superhero job at some point. And I’m going to have to go back to my job. And—I just figured this was temporary while you needed my help. We’ll still stay friends, I hope, but—you’re not planning on bunking with me forever, are you?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Steve says, and then he isn’t sure what else to say. His hand tightens on Sam’s foot again without even realizing it, and Steve swallows. “I haven’t been letting myself think about the future that much, because ... I don’t know how long this will take, or how far it will go.” The words are difficult to say. “I don’t know what we’ll actually find, when we find—Bucky. And if I let myself think about it too much—“

“I know,” Sam says. “You have to take it one day at a time. I get that.”

Steve’s mouth twists up unhappily. “But I haven’t been thinking about—that’s not fair to you, Sam. Asking you to put your life on hold indefinitely isn’t—okay.”

“Yeah.” Sam sighs a little, staring up at the ceiling. “Hell, I _want_ to say yes. I _did_ say yes.” He looks over, meeting Steve’s eyes. “And I still mean that, I want to help. But—I shouldn’t do it indefinitely. Even if I want to. It isn’t good for me.”

“—Right.” Steve can’t look away from Sam’s gaze. “But I want—if _you_ want—I want to work something out then. Because I don’t want to be just friends who see each other every once in a while. I want you in my life—however works for you.” A terrible thought occurs to Steve. “You’re not a temporary stand-in for Bucky, you know that, right?”

There’s a small smile tugging at Sam’s lips, but his eyes are serious. “I figured, but it’s good to hear you say it.”

The fabric of Sam’s sweatpants is bunching under Steve’s fingers. “And it’s not just because the rest of my life went to hell, and I’m clinging to—“ He shakes his head.

“It’s okay to need people,” Sam says, “As long as you’re not using them. As long as you’re not making them stay.”

“I don’t want to _make_ you stay,” Steve says. “I do need you, Sam. I want you with me, for as long as you want to stay.”

Sam finally pushes himself up so he’s eyelevel with Steve, even though it pulls his feet out of Steve’s lap. He’s working his jaw like he’s considering clenching it. “You—better mean that,” he finally says. “My life before was good because I had worked out a system, a pattern, that helped keep me healthy.”

“Like routines?” Steve asks.

It seems like the right question, like Steve’s finally got Sam on a roll. “Routines, yeah, but also if I was having a bad day, if I was having a hard time, I had things already figured out, who I could talk to, where I could go, almost like a list, man, of stuff I could do to take care of myself when things come up. And shit always comes up, _always_. It doesn’t just take jumping back into a war with my wings on. But before, part of the reason I was doing so good was I could recognize warning signs and do the stuff I needed to do _before_ it got to two hour break down in the shower.”

 _Don’t bring your feelings of guilt into it_ , Steve reminds himself. “So, what you’re saying is—?”

“Whatever I do for any kind of long term, I’ll need to work out a new system that fits with—whatever it is I’m doing. Whether it’s being on the road or moving somewhere, or what. And to do that, I’m going to need some kind of base, some kind of point to build from. So don’t tell me you want me with you—to stay, unless you really mean it.”

“I mean it,” Steve says. “I mean it. However you want. You’re a hero too, Sam, we can see about getting your wings fixed and you should be included in the Avengers, if you want. We can work together again, or—“

“Hold up, Steve, just wait for a second, okay?” Sam says and Steve realizes he’s honestly not sure when the last time was his mouth got away from him like that. _What about you and Stark? How do I know you two haven’t been fonduing?_ pops into his head.

What had Howard said?

Steve’s goose was well and truly cooked.

“I’m waiting,” he says, helpless to keep the smile off his face.

“When you say however I want, do you really mean—?”

Steve’s smile is lopsided. “I can think of some versions I would find more preferable than others, but yeah, I mean it. It’s your call.”

Sam’s looking at him with an expression Steve can’t read. “So, living together?”

“It’s working pretty well so far, I think,” Steve says.

“Working together?”

“Is great so far,” Steve says.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Living _and_ working together is a lot of togetherness.”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve says. “... I spent over a year with the Howling Commandos basically all day, every day. We were supposed to take furloughs, but we almost never did. I got so sick of their faces that I couldn’t imagine life without them.”

Sam nods. “I know exactly what you mean.” There’s a pause. “Running together?”

Steve’s smirk is just a tiny bit sheepish and Sam grins back at him.

“Oh, I see that’s how it is.”

Steve shrugs a little. “It is what it is. Besides, you can beat me in the air anytime.”

“You mean catch your ass in the air,” Sam says.

“That too,” Steve says with a shit-eating grin.

Sam smiles but then his face turns serious again. “—But what if that’s not what I want?”

Steve’s stomach drops, but he tries not to let it show on his face. “Then what?”

Sam’s giving him pretty good blank face and Steve has no idea where this is going. “I can be your friend if you want,” Sam says. “But—I never asked you about your current dating status, did I? Or preferences.”

“Preferences. Dating preferences?” Steve puts things together very quickly—it’s a necessary skill in his line of work. The only thing making him hesitate right now is the fear he might be wrong, and the painful hope he might be right. “If you’re asking if I would date a man—the answer’s yes.”

Sam exhales. “Yeah, that’s what I was asking. So, non-hypothetically now ... I want to ask you on a date.”

“Really?” Steve’s not sure what his own expression is doing right now, but probably nothing good, some mixture of pained hope and reluctant hesitation. “I mean, I don’t mean it like that. I just—right now seemed like the wrong time to bring it up. I didn’t want to be ... pushy. Or insensitive. Or—“

“Steve.” Sam’s smiling, shaking his head like he almost can’t believe Steve is real. “I appreciate you realizing that _you_ bringing it up would probably not be good timing, but ... answering _my_ question isn’t being pushy. I’m not saying let’s get it on right now, I’m saying do you want to try dating? Because.” The corner of Sam’s mouth curls upward. “That would impact how I plan for the future.”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I mean, yes, in answer to your question. Yes, Sam Wilson, I want to date you.”

Sam’s smile spreads across his face like the unfurling of wings and as soon as Steve gets his pad back in his hands he’s going to draw it, never mind if he doesn’t know where to start. He can start anywhere.

“So ... what’s the rule on foot rubs before the second date?” Sam asks with a mostly straight face.

Steve tilts his head, feeling suddenly now both wrung out and content with the world. “You know, I don’t think there is one.” He gives Sam the smile he knows people find charming. “We’ll probably have to make it up.”

Sam’s look says he sees exactly what Steve is trying to do, but his voice and face are maybe mellower than they’ve been this whole conversation. “Probably no rule book for dating the superhero who’s crashing at your place because the bad guys shot up his apartment either, is there?”

“Guess we’ll have to write one,” Steve says, grinning. He reaches out, catching Sam’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers loosely together.

“Guess we will,” Sam says with a contented sounding sigh as he eases back down into the blankets, swinging his feet back around so they’re on Steve’s lap again. “Rule number one, share the Oreos. And not with my damn face.”

Steve smirks a little. “I think I can manage that.”

“Rule number two,” Sam says. “The bet is still on. And I still plan to win.”

“Ohh, is that so?” Steve teases.

“Hell yeah, that’s so,” Sam says. “I don’t believe in throwing a competition just because you’re dating someone. That isn’t right.”

“Then you won’t hold it against me when _I_ win,” Steve says with a smirk.

“In your dreams, pretty boy,” Sam says, thumping Steve lightly with their linked together hands.

“I’m the pretty one?” Steve asks. “Have you looked at yourself?”

“You saying I’m pretty?” Sam considers it. “... Well alright, we can both be the pretty ones. We do make one hell of a handsome couple.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s pretty sure his smile has gone from teasing to smitten, but he’s also sure he doesn’t care.

Because when Sam looks over at him, he looks like he may be smitten himself, now that Steve is letting himself read the signs instead of dismissing them as wishful thinking. “Alright, rule number three—forget the rules and get over here.”

Steve leans over and Sam reaches up with his other hand to wrap around Steve’s neck and pull him into a kiss. It’s closemouthed and chaste, not very long, but it’s the best thing Steve’s felt in—a while. When they pull apart, Sam runs his fingers through the short hair at the back of Steve’s skull as he lets him go.

“ _Damn._ ”

“You feeling better?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I’m feeling a lot better. I still want to some time to just rest and recharge, though, I don’t want to start anything just yet.”

“That’s totally fine,” Steve says. “I still meant what I said before, whatever you need, just tell me.”

Sam cups Steve’s cheek and darts up, stealing a quick kiss. “Rain check,” he says, smug.

Steve shuts his eyes and shakes his head as he smiles. “You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you.”

“I have it on very good authority you are extremely difficult to kill,” Sam deadpans.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his smirk stretching into a wide grin, “I think I can handle whatever you have to throw at me.”

“Mmhmm, we’ll see about that,” Sam says, but he’s grinning too.

Steve smiles at him some more, before turning to reach over the side of the bed. “In the meantime, I have my Starkpad and a whole list of movies I need to catch up on, if you’re interested?”

“Hand it over,” Sam says. He starts flicking through the movie selection. “Ooh, _Stardust_ , it has sky pirates—plus it’s all sappy and romantic and shit.” He nudges Steve. “I bet you’ll like that one.”

“Oh, will I?” Steve asks. “Let’s see.”

They spend a moment rearranging themselves until Sam is pressed against Steve’s side, and Steve’s got his head on Sam’s shoulder. They prop the Starkpad against their knees and hit play.

And if Sam keeps eyeing the Oreos like he plans to smear some cream filling on Steve’s face at some point—well, Steve plans to let him.

**Author's Note:**

> Proud member of the Sam Wilson defense league. Find me over on [tumblr](http://peardita.tumblr.com/).


End file.
